“No,” said Gilmore. “Vane has licked; and it’s just like him, he hasn’t hit Dis in the face once. Don’t notice it.”
“Not I.”
They were within speaking distance now; and Distin’s sallow countenance showed two burning red spots in the cheeks.
“Hullo!” cried Vane. “Come to meet us?”
“Yes,” said Gilmore; “we began to think you were lost.”
“Oh, no,” said Vane, carelessly. “Been some distance and the time soon goes. I think I’ll turn off here, and get home across the meadows. Good-evening, you two. Good-night, Dis, old chap.”
“Good-night,” said Distin, huskily, as he took the bruised and slightly bleeding hand held out to him. Then turning away, he walked swiftly on.
“Why, Vane, old boy,” whispered Gilmore, “what’s going on?”
Vane must have read of Douglas Jerrold’s smart reply, for he said, merrily:
“I am; good-night,” and he was gone.